


lessons in palmistry

by propinquitous



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Depression, Established Relationship, Gentleness, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, Touching, negative self-talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-06 18:12:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19067950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/propinquitous/pseuds/propinquitous
Summary: Quentin knows, now, when to ask for help, but it doesn't stop the panic."I don't know what's happening, I know this is fucking stupid but I can't, goddamnit Eliot I can't, I can't, please, fucking help me. I can't - my hands, myhands," he said. He held them out in front of him, fingers extended and empty, as if to show Eliot the obvious, that they were broken, that he was broken, that he didn't have anything to offer.





	lessons in palmistry

**Author's Note:**

> just a quick note to say that the self harm is quentin hitting himself as he panics. there is no cutting or anything graphic, but as always stay safe. this is definitely a heavy one.

Quentin knew his hands shook. They always had. If it wasn't anxiety, it was hunger after he'd been too depressed to eat; if it wasn't his meds, it was SSRI withdrawal. It was any number of things but always, it was a simple truth: his hands were never steady. 

He tried not to think about it but it was hard, worse every day, because it was their fault he broke things, his grip slipping at any moment. It was his hands that made his mother see him as a child, helpless and fumbling, the reason he would never grow up. When he touched people, he never communicated reassurance, never made them feel any safer and when he held Alice's face in his hands and kissed her, he had to hold tighter than he wanted to keep from trembling. His hands had always failed him, broken ashtrays and model airplanes and hearts all the same.

The worst part was what they did to his magic. He felt, no, he _knew_ that if he could just steady them for half a second, he'd be able to manage more than minor mendings, that he'd be able to make things better for his friends if not the wider world. And really, he didn't want power but he did want to be better than he was, to feel like he had something real in his veins and like he could hold it in firm, open hands. He wanted to be able to cast something with precision, with less effort, because it hurt to be like this, to be so astoundingly mediocre at best, to have to work harder than everyone else to manage the smallest things. On the worst days, he could sense it, right under his skin, his thrumming blood that sent his hands quaking, messy and slow, and he couldn't stand it, couldn't imagine living another day with himself. It all snowballed until he could barely breathe and he found himself on his knees and gasping, scraping at his arms and legs. He would cry and cry out until eventually Eliot found him because by then Quentin knew he needed someone, needed _Eliot_ , to help, to bring him back down.

Because Eliot, his hands were always steady, always sure. Even when Quentin couldn't stop trembling, Eliot's hands were fine and still. They held him close and smoothed his hair, soothed his aching muscles. They cradled his face when he couldn't stand to open his eyes, wiped away tears even when they wouldn't stop. His arms held him tightly when his hands weren't enough, held him against his chest and compressed his ribcage until his breathing slowed. And he knew, in the moment when his fingers slipped and the screwdriver in his hand hit the table with a sudden sharp thud, that he needed him.

"El," he said, once, quiet. "El." Louder this time. His breathing was getting unsteady, his heart starting to hammer, ratcheting up his blood pressure until his hands shook even worse, somehow, and he couldn't see, had to cover his face to keep the bright out because suddenly every light was haloed and blinding and he was standing on the edge of a yawning canyon, ready to slip.

"Q, you okay?" Eliot asked as he walked into the kitchen where Quentin sat, breathing heavy into his hands. When Quentin felt the weight of Eliot's hand on his shoulder he jerked away, immediately ashamed but unable to do anything but take another deep, shuddering breath and push the heels of his hands against his eyes.

"No, fuck, don't, no, don't fucking touch me," Quentin said into his stupid, shaking hands. He could feel Eliot's helpless eyes on him as he dug his nails into his forehead, as he moved and tugged at his hair. His muscles were seizing and he felt himself losing control, lifting up out of his body even as he drew his limbs inward. He felt a gaping absence growing beneath his ribs, a startling pressure and the pain was tangible, sharp behind his sternum and he couldn't, he couldn't, he wasn't going to make it through this.

"Quentin, it's okay," Eliot said. His voice was soft, intentionally so, and it set Quentin's panic soaring, the knowledge that he had to be managed, that he had to be settled like a wild dog. It made him hate himself, to know he was a burden like this. He felt his voice crawling its way up his throat to say something hateful, anything to make Eliot leave but it caught in the tangle of frenetic energy in his chest, a cosmic mess, and he sobbed instead, a long choked noise.

"I don't know what's happening, I know this is fucking stupid but I can't, goddamnit Eliot I can't, I can't, please, fucking help me. I can't - my hands, my _hands_ ," he said. He held them in front of him, fingers extended and empty, as if to show Eliot the obvious, that they were broken, that he was broken, that he didn't have anything to offer.

Eliot's steps were quiet but Quentin heard him approaching again and it was too, too much, always too much, to know that Eliot had to handle him.

"No fuck - I can't, I can't, no, no, no, no." As he spoke, he knew he didn't make any sense, but all he could think was _I don't want this_ and couldn't even get the phrase out. It was like his brain was stuck on a loop, an inexorable orbit that might bring him crashing into the planet at any moment. He pushed back away from the table and stood. Eliot reached for him but he flinched away because he was a coward and he didn't deserve Eliot and it was building and building, the anger and the self-hatred folding in on itself and increasing in density until it threatened to collapse into a black hole in his center and consume, consume everything and the panic wouldn't stop, wouldn't fucking _stop_ and if Eliot touched him he might die, he would, he knew it.

"Let me help you," Eliot said. Quentin stopped, then, just long enough to finally look at Eliot's face. His eyes were wide and pleading and it cracked Quentin's heart and he was crying again, clenching his fists as he tried not to punch at his thighs.

Nothing in particular had set him off, he thought, it was all so distant already, light years away, except there was one thing, he knew, he had been trying to replace a belt in a vacuum cleaner of all goddamn things and he couldn't, he couldn't get it to set correctly, couldn't hold a screwdriver straight enough or his hands steady enough to cast it in. He had gotten angrier and angrier with himself until almost anything was impossible and then before he knew it he was here, hating himself and shouting at Eliot and pacing around the kitchen table, hitting his chest with an open palm because it was the only motion he could complete with enough ferocity that he didn't shake and at least, he thought, hurting himself wasn't a delicate process.

"Sweetheart," Eliot breathed and there is was again, Quentin thought through the fog of self-loathing and panic, that tired patience. "How can I help?" 

Quentin sighed and pulled at his hair until it hurt. "I don't know I don't fucking know I can't tell you I just, please, make this stop," he said. When Eliot was silent it was unbearable, a tight and wrenching pain in his gut that made him need to fill the quiet void but he couldn't, not with anything that might help, and so he walked away, trying to find a place to hide and then before he realized where he was he was curled up on the bed, squeezing his knees.

Eyes closed, he felt the bed dip under Eliot's weight and there was a brief rush of relief, then, that Eliot hadn't left him, that he hadn't been abandoned. He couldn't move away when Eliot reached for him and dragged his hand flat over his back, rubbing gentle circles between his shoulder blades. It calmed Quentin briefly, just enough for his breathing to slow.

But then, the silence. It was always silence, silence or Eliot's too-calm voice, everything that meant that he had to be _dealt with_ , leaving him swimming in the mess of of his mind, the persistent radio waves of anger and despair and all the things about himself he couldn't stand. Eliot's hand was warm but he was quiet and it killed Quentin, broke something brittle off inside him, to know that there was nothing Eliot could say but needing him to speak so badly, needing him to logic him out of his bullshit in a way that could not be expected of anyone, that wasn't fair and he knew it, he knew it, but it didn't matter.

The silence built into rage again and Quentin tensed. He hated Eliot a little, in that moment, for not being exactly everything that could fix him.

"No, no not like that! I need you to talk to me, don't just sit there and let it be quiet, I need, I need," he said and he couldn't stop, couldn't quiet, his words like meteors burning through the atmosphere, unstoppable and destructive. He needed to be fixed, he thought, and he hated himself for needing it and hated Eliot for not being able to do it and he didn't want to have to live like this, barely functional and always, always shaking, always needing.

"Please, fucking help me, stop being so fucking useless and help me," Quentin gasped against the sheets. " _Please._ "

"Q," Eliot said, and his voice was flat in a way that shot terror through Quentin. "Don't talk to me like that." And then he was gone, storming out of the room on heavy soles and Quentin howled into the pillow. This was what he deserved, he knew, because he was a fucking idiot and he deserved to be left alone until he was dead because why would anyone want this, why would Eliot, who was beautiful and adored and had already been through so much, why would he of all people want to deal with him? The black hole was there in his chest, now, churning and spinning in an unknowable and uncontrollable way and it was going to destroy him like it had always promised because it was too late for him, Eliot was gone and Eliot was finished and Quentin had fucked up everything because that's what he did, that's who he was with his broken brain and his shaking hands and he deserved this, he knew it, and so he cried and yelled and beat his legs with his fists until he lost his voice, exhausted.

He lay breathing, loud, heavy, and wet against the sheets for what felt like a long time. He wasn't sure. The crying came and went, came and came again. Quentin hadn't opened his eyes since he'd laid down and time was meaningless, all lost in the whirling mess of his anger and despair.

The silence stayed in Eliot's place. It coiled around Quentin and whispered all the things that he already thought, already knew: that he was useless, unlovable, that he didn't deserve Eliot or anyone. He let it fall over him, the dusk of it cool against his sweat and tear damp skin, for what felt like hours but couldn't have been more than a few minutes and then Eliot was back, lying down, pulling Quentin into his chest. This time, Quentin didn't resist, too worn out from his own violence to resist Eliot's pull, the tide fighting the moon. He went like putty against Eliot and felt tears at the gates again, a threatening and inevitable force.

"Q," he said and brushed his hair back, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have walked away, I just - I don't know what to do all the time. I don't know what to say and I feel, just, so stupid and helpless." He pressed a kiss to his forehead and let it linger.

"You're not, no, you're not, please don't say, God, I'm sorry, I don't know why I said," Quentin gasped and tugged hard at his shirt. He didn't want to be the person he was.

"Quentin, it's okay," he said against his hair. Quentin sobbed and sucked in ragged breaths, felt his tears and spit soak through Eliot's shirt and it was a nice one too, and _Oh God_ , Quentin thought, _I ruin everything I ruin fucking everything_. He felt the emptiness inside him pulling again, fighting Eliot's gravity. He choked on his breath.

"It's okay, Q, honey, it's okay," Eliot said and it made Quentin sob harder, the earlier rage collapsed like a house of cards into relief that Eliot was here and Eliot loved him and Eliot cared and it was too much, so much more than he deserved. "What happened?" he said.

"I hate my hands, that's why - that's why I freaked out," Quentin said, still gasping a little. "I was trying to fix the vacuum? I don't know. It just. It wasn't working because my hands weren't steady enough and I really, really hate them and how much they make me hate myself."

"I'm sorry, Q, I'm sorry you have to go through that. You don't deserve it."

Quentin laughed, bitter at the edges. "I said awful shit to you and I don't know why, I just - I don't know, fuck, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, El, I don't know why I'm like this."

"You've been trying to get better, and you are, you're always healing. It's, I don't know, it's an iterative process. I know you're doing your best. Sometimes it's not going to be enough, though, you know that's part of having your brain. We'll keep working on it, okay?"

The roiling anger had transmuted, finally, completely into guilt. Quentin felt guilty about every part of himself - his inability to control the panic, the way he dissociated, the shitty things he said when he disconnected and how he couldn't slow down, couldn't stop as it all built up. He felt guilty for existing, for dragging Eliot down, and worst of all felt guilty because he was here, wasting his time on comforting him when as soon as he had calmed, the countdown had begun on another panic attack or meltdown or worse. More than anything he hated, absolutely hated, the knowledge that this would never stop and that by choosing him, Eliot was choosing this, for as long as he stayed.

He took a deep breath and said, "You don't - you shouldn't have to deal with me, though, not after everything, I don't - you're going to leave me one day and you should, you shouldn't have to deal with me like this."

"Quentin, don't. Don't go down that road," Eliot said, a hint of anger riding on the last syllable.

"I'm sorry, I'm just - I don't get it. I can't imagine loving me, I'm sorry," Quentin said and he forced the words out as they caught. Eliot deserved to know, deserved the chance to get away before Quentin drew him in any closer and crashed them both into pieces.

Eliot sighed, not exasperated, but tired, thoughtful. Quentin squeezed his eyes shut and gripped at the front of his shirt.

"Can I show you something?"

Quentin nodded, pressing his forehead into Eliot's sodden shirt and then he was upright, beside and leaning against Eliot on the edge of the bed. He was warm and solid against him and it brought Quentin down another notch, slowed his breathing another small beat.

"Okay?" Eliot said. Quentin nodded and felt shame creeping up his neck, a precursor to the embarrassment that would come later, in the light of calm. He pushed it down when Eliot took Quentin's hands in his and allowed himself to be moved like a puppet until his arms were extended alongside Eliot's.

"See these?" he said. Quentin looked up. Eliot held his hands in his own, fingers extended. He winced at the sight - the ragged nails, the dry and peeling cuticles around his thumbs. Worse than anything was the way his hands still visibly shook, even as Eliot held them. He took a deep breath and tilted his chin down.

"These are good hands," he said, turning and running his fingertips over Quentin's palms. It made Quentin shiver. For a moment, he forgot how he'd ended up there, pressed close as anything, his planes all lined up with Eliot's in perfect geometry. "I love these hands." He brought Quentin's left up to his lips and kissed each knuckle. "These hands fixed my glasses when I fell asleep in them, remember?"

Quentin did, he remembered how the plastic frames had snapped at the bridge because Eliot was a heavy sleeper and hadn't noticed, somehow, when he'd rolled over and crushed them. Quentin had fixed them easily, a quick cast. He hadn't thought much about it since. He kept his head down.

"These hands won the Welters tournament, remember that insane fucking storm? You did that, with your hands." Quentin felt him laugh something small and press a brief kiss to his palm. The heavy gravity in his center lifted, just a little. 

"They won that card game you told me about, from when I was under? 23 told me about it later, I don't think I ever told you. He was mad about it," Eliot laughed, "but he admitted you were amazing." Quentin managed a small laugh at any version of Penny calling him amazing and it shifted the air, lifted the humidity somehow. He leaned his cheek against Eliot's shoulder.

"Your hands are good at magic, Q. I know you don't think so but they are. What you do, what you're capable of, it matters." Quentin closed his eyes. He didn't know what he felt, but Eliot always rose over his horizon in these moments, when it felt like the world was ending.

"And you know what? These hands, your hands, fit perfectly in mine," Eliot said. "They're good, you're good. Do you believe me?"

Quentin shook his head. He wanted to, he did, wanted to believe Eliot like he was explaining that the Earth was round, like what he said was undeniable, incontrovertible. But he couldn't. The truth was that Quentin lived in perpetual denial, always ready to reject a truth out of fear, of what it would mean to change his worldview.

"I'm sorry, I'm - I can't," he said, and he was too tired to cry.

"Okay, it's okay," Eliot said and squeezed his hands, a little hard, brushing his thumbs over Quentin's knuckles. "These hands got me back, remember?" Quentin felt his throat closing, overcome with the memory of Eliot when he wasn't Eliot and the relief he had felt the first time he saw him in the hospital bed, bloodied but breathing and _alive_ and the way he'd looked at Quentin, then, how his love had flooded the room, how it had washed over Quentin in a wave of grief and regret but more than anything, of hope.

"These hands held the books and cast the bond," Eliot said. "They tossed that fucking thing into the seam and then they came and they _found me_."

Quentin held tight onto Eliot's hands. His breathing was slower, more even now but he couldn't bring himself to open his eyes, couldn't stand what he imagined Eliot's expression to be. He took a deep breath and nodded.

"These hands changed my bandages for weeks and fed me when I couldn't feed myself," Eliot said. He ran his fingertips over the lines of Quentin's palms and his voice was petal-soft, gentle but no longer soothing and it eased Quentin another rung down, the intimacy unforced. He felt cradled, his hands an extension of himself in the way they always were except now he felt only closeness, only comfort as Eliot held them still. Eliot continued, "These hands checked my IV lines when I was in the hospital and cleaned my wounds when I came home. These hands -" There was a strain in his voice that made Quentin ache all over. He wanted so badly to believe Eliot, to believe that he was worth his effort, that he was more than his shaking hands and unsettled mind and cruel behavior.

"These hands make me breakfast and fix the things I break and they carry me, Q, your hands literally, in-real-life carry me when I'm too tired and weak and when my cane isn't enough, when I can't even hold myself up, when," he swallowed hard, "when I can't go on anymore." Eliot took a deep breath. "Your hands kept me alive, Q. They keep me going every day."

For a long moment after, everything was quiet. Only this time the silence didn't make Quentin miserable; instead he felt a deep, aching gratitude. He turned Eliot's words over and over again in his head, trying to shape them into something that would fit in his self-image, because he trusted Eliot and knew that he owed it to him at the very least to listen, to internalize some part of what he'd said.

Quentin opened his eyes and finally found the courage to look at Eliot, to watch him staring down at Quentin's hands where he cradled them in his lap. There was a strange reverence in his posture, his palms flat and back straight, like he was holding a relic, something fragile and holy and Quentin realized, then, that there were drying tear tracks down his cheeks.

Eliot looked up and Quentin forced himself to keep his gaze, to not close his eyes or look away again. He turned Eliot's hands over to hold them and tried to smile. Quentin felt himself spinning out of orbit at the sight of Eliot's face, too full of obvious, honest affection, even as he wiped away tears. They stayed silent for another minute, holding each other at arm's length.

"I wish you could see what I see," Eliot finally said, and his chin quivered. "You're not your failures, Q. You're someone I love and that I want to be here with me and I would be - I wouldn't be myself without you, not anymore. I know it's selfish but please, keep trying, for me."

Quentin nodded. "Okay," he said, barely a rasp, "okay."

"And don't believe the voice in your head that convinces you I'm going to hate you and leave you," Eliot said. He pulled Quentin in by the back of the neck and kissed him once, and really it was barely a kiss but Quentin's lips burned with the comfort of it. Eliot's forehead stayed pressed against his and he let his eyes slip closed again, desperate for the courage of the dark.

"It's just. I don't get it, I don't know why you'd want to deal with me," Quentin said. "I don't deserve you and you don't deserve the shit I put you through." And there it was, that bubble of panic rising in his throat again. He swallowed around it and gripped Eliot's hands.

"No," Eliot said and his voice was final, firm. "You don't get to decide that. I'm here because I want to take care of you just like you were there because you wanted to take care of me. That's how it works. You don't get to decide if you're worth my time, okay?"

Quentin almost laughed, all of his emotions tangling up with one another until he couldn't distinguish between sadness and relief anymore. It was all a formless nebula but it was bright, all of a sudden, shining and explosive in his chest. In that moment he had the overwhelming sense that he could, maybe, hopefully, be better. He pressed another longer kiss to Eliot's mouth instead and held Eliot's face in his hands. For now, they were steady, and that had to be enough.

"Okay," he said, and kissed Eliot again. "Okay."


End file.
